


With Every Fallen Grain

by infinitevariety (disapparater)



Series: Summer Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff and Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Summer Omens (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25356385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/infinitevariety
Summary: Crowley wants to go to the beach, but Aziraphale is busy. He improvises.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Summer Omens [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836280
Comments: 11
Kudos: 55





	With Every Fallen Grain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Summer Omens prompt SAND and originally posted [here](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/post/623540400188178432/sand).

“Let’s go to the beach.”

“The beach?” asks Aziraphale. He looks up from his papers to see Crowley lounging on the sofa, seemingly even more boneless than usual.

“Yeah. Sun, sea, sand. Whole shebang. Let’s go.” Crowley jumps up from the sofa, loose limbs now alive with energy.

“What, _now?_ ”

“No time like the present.” As he speaks Crowley is swiping and typing away on his phone. “Chalkwell’s less than an hour in the Bentley and the weather looks good.” He doesn’t even look up as he starts walking towards the door. “We can stop at M&S for nibbles and wine on the—”

Crowley finally stops up short and seems to realise Aziraphale is not following him.

“Angel?” He inclines his head towards the door. “Beach?”

“Crowley, I can’t.” Aziraphale waves his hands over the papers on his desk. “I’m in the middle of translating these Sanskrit scrolls, and it’ll take me ages to find my rhythm again if I stop now.”

“Oh,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale can’t see his eyes, covered by his sunglasses, but he gets the strong impression that Crowley blinks at him. There is a beat of silence.

“Of course, yeah, sure.” Crowley shoves his phone in the back pocket of his jeans and both his hands into the front pockets. “I’ll just...” He nods to the door again.

“You don’t have to leave,” Aziraphale assures him. “Stay. We can go to the beach other time?”

“Nah. S’fine. I’m gonna…” This time he turns to look at the door. “Go.”

“Oh.” Now it’s Aziraphale’s turn to blink.

“See you later, Angel.”

Crowley strolls out of the door without looking back. Aziraphale turns his attention back to his scrolls, ignores the regret he can feel creeping up his spine, and gets back to work.

\- 

Several hours, copious amounts of tea, and six scrolls later, Aziraphale puts down his pen and cracks his neck. Satisfied with his work, he gathers the papers and locks them in his desk drawer. When he looks up the clock tells him it’s quarter past five and his stomach gives a low grumble.

Remembering how they left things earlier in the day, Aziraphale decides to visit Crowley and take him out to dinner.

He walks the 20 minutes from Soho to Mayfair and slips into Crowley’s building. As he rides the lift up to the top floor he decides on Thai for dinner. There’s a lovely little restaurant just off Piccadilly, and then afterwards they can take a wander through St James’s Park.

The doors open and Aziraphale is smiling as he steps out of the lift. Not even the thumping bass of bebop he can hear coming from Crowley’s flat can dampen his mood. He knocks ineffectually, knowing Crowley won’t hear it over his music, then lets himself in.

“Crowley?” he calls, hoping his voice might permeate the din. It doesn’t. He can barely hear it himself.

He walks through Crowley’s entry way towards the main living room, the music getting louder with every step. Before he opens the door to the room, he notices several small purple plastic suitcases lined up against the wall.

“They’re new,” he mumbles to himself, brow creasing in curiosity. But he shrugs it off and opens the door to the living area.

Aziraphale is met by a wall of sound, the music so loud he feels it physically pressing against him. The miracle to turn down the volume a smidgen and take the edge off is purely instinctive.

“Hello,” he tries again. “Crowley, dear?”

Stepping further into the room, Crowley comes into view. Hunched over his large, ornate desk, he seems very focused on something. Crowley only has eyes, sans sunglasses, for the table in front of him, and his tongue peeks out of the corner of his lip—a sure sign of his unwavering concentration.

Aziraphale can only smile.

As he’s smiling, Aziraphale’s focus meanders from Crowley down to what he’s leaning over.

The desk is covered in sand. Which, considering the size of the thing, is a lot of sand. It reaches every edge, even spilling over on to the floor a little in a couple of places. Aziraphale shakes his head, hoping to clear it, because he can’t be seeing this.

But he is. Crowley is sitting at his desk, making sandcastles.

There are small buckets and spades spread across the sand. Tiny moulds of different shapes—starfish, shells, seahorses, fish, turtles. And at the centre of the desk is a large, very grand (for a sandcastle) feat of architecture.

Crowley seems to be putting the finishing touches to the grounds of his castle, adjusting paths and adding texture. In lieu of knowing what to do or say, Aziraphale looks away. On the floor by his feet he sees several pieces of cardboard packaging. He bends to pick a couple up.

As the current song finishes Aziraphale unwittingly speaks into the silence between songs.

“Kinetic sand?”

Crowley startles so acutely he elbows one of the towers from his castle.

The music stops before the next song gets more than a few, loud notes out.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley cries, a hand at his chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“So sorry, my dear. I did knock, but your music was _quite_ loud.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I finished my translations and thought I’d...” He pauses, the rest of his sentence redundant. “You really wanted to go to the beach, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale holds up the cardboard packaging and nods towards Crowley’s desk.

“Well.” Crowley shrugs. “Ngk.” Waves vaguely as his sandcastle. “Just.” Then he sighs, shoulders slumping.

“Okay,” says Aziraphale.

“Okay…?”

“Okay, let’s go to the beach.” Aziraphale tosses aside the cardboard. “It’s Thursday. Let’s leave early tomorrow morning and set off for the coast. Spend the weekend wherever we end up.”

A smile is making its way on to Crowley’s face. “Really?”

The simple hope in Crowley’s eyes gives Aziraphale visions of them at the beach. Crowley, paddling in the sea. Crowley picking up crabs and watching their legs wriggle. Crowley, in a big sun hat, shading his shoulders from the sun. Crowley, playing in the sand...

“One condition.”

Crowley raising a questioning eye brow.

Aziraphale grins. “You have to bring your little buckets and spades.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com%22)!


End file.
